Bonny Jean

And ay sho wrought her mither's wark,

And ay sho sang sae merrilie;

The blithest bird upon the bush,

Had no'er a lighter heart than she.

But hawks will rob tho tender joys

That bless tho little lintwhito's nest:

And frost will blight tho fairest flowers,

And levo will break the soundest rest.

Young Robie was the brawest lad,

The flower and pride of a' the glen;

And he had owsen, sheep, and kye,

And wanton nagies nine or ten.

He gaed wi' Jeanie to the tryst,

He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down;

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist,

Her heart was tint, her peace was stewn,

As in tho boson o' the stream

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en;

So trembling pure, was tender love

Within the breast o' bonny Jean.

And now she works her mither's wark,

And ay she sighs wi' care and pain;

Yet wist na what her ail might be,

Or what wad mak her weel again.

But didna Jeanies heart loup light,

And didna joy blink in her e'e,

As Robie tauld a tale of love,

At e'ening on the lily lee?

The sun was sinking in the west,

The birds sang sweet in ilka grove;

His cheek to her's he fondly prest,

And whisper'd thus his tale of love:–

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear;

O canst thou think to fancy me

Or wilt thou leave thy mither's cot,

And learn to tent the farms wi' me?

At barn or byre thou shalt na drudge,

Or naething else to trouble thee;

But stray amang the heather bells,

And tent the waving corn wi' me.

Now what could artless Jeanie do?

She had nae will to say him na;

At length she blush'd a sweet consent,

And love was aye between them twa.